


Ruining a Business and Other Fun Date Night Activities

by CurlicueCal, LaughingStones



Series: Unexpected Diamonds [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, M/M, No Sex, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Past Sexual Assault, hemocaste flip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-04-19 22:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurlicueCal/pseuds/CurlicueCal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingStones/pseuds/LaughingStones
Summary: A couple nights ago Bro ended up spontaneously forming a moirallegiance with a hurt and angry purpleblood. Now said purpleblood is up in arms and ready to do something stupid, and it's up to Bro to be a good moirail and keep him out of trouble, when Bro is not that great at staying out of trouble himself...He's not practiced at pacifying enraged trolls, either, but he'd better get good fast.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Curlicuecal for helping me fix the trailing end of the next chapter, pointing out that I could post this bit now, and keeping me interested in this story with her enthusiasm! Also blessings upon her forever for teaching me how to make a new work skin. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tweaked Bro's chat color because a) there's a bit of a difference between Bro and Dirk, and b) readability, because that's a very pale orange.

The sun rose a while back and you're just thinking you should stop playing this dumb tappy game and get to bed when your phone alerts you to a new message.

TC: sO My bIg bRo’S BeInG To sAy aS YoU’rE AlL At bEiNg hIs mOiRaIl nOw.

Well okay. No salutations or social courtesies, just straight to the point. Gamzee Makara, speaking of your Ancestor slash lusus-type person, didn't Kurloz teach you better than that? And for that matter, why are you going behind his back to question his quadrants?

Just laid out there in statement form, there's no way to tell what the kid thinks about it, why he's asking, anything. You wait a minute in case there's more, but no more comes. Fine, you can handle a suspicious teenage troll.

TT: Yep. That sure is a thing that's true.  
TT: We are deep in the throes of pale romance.  
TT: How deep, you may ask?  
TC: GOOD

Rude. Little shit cut you off just as you were getting into your flow. He doesn't stop at that, either, your phone keeps dinging as messages come in quick succession.

TC: it better be motherfucking serendipitous  
TC: A MIRACLE HANDED DOWN FROM THE BLESSED MESSIAHS’ OWN FRONDS  
TC: cuz you gotta get over here right now and soothe him down

What the fuck.

TT: What's going on?  
TC: hE's pLaNnInG SoMeThInG.  
TC: aIn'T GoT A NoTiOn oN Me oF WhAt, hE WoN't gEt tO TeLlInG At Me, bUt iT's mOtHeRfUcKiN MaYhEm.  
TC: i KnOw iT By tHe lOoK On hIm.  
TC: lAsT He gOt tHaT LoOk aLl tO hIm sOmE ReAl bAd sHiT wEnT DoWn, wE HaD To LeAvE ToWn.  
TC: i DoN't wAnT To uP AnD GeT OuR MoVe oN AgAiN, We GoT FrIeNdS HeRe. :o(  
TC: sO PlEaSe iF YoU GoT AnY PaLe fEeLiNgS uP In YoUr pUsHeR fOr hIm, CoMe pAp hIm dOwN InTo hIs cHiLl aGaIn.  
TT: Maybe you could expand a little on “real bad shit” for the ignorant human here. Are we talking “hounded by the legislaceraters” or “gang warfare” or what?  
TC: MOTHERFUCKER I AIN'T GOT TIME TO EXPLICATE SHIT TO YOUR SATISFACTION  
TC: just tell it at me true  
TC: DO YOU GIVE A SHIT  
TC: about my brother  
TC: OR NO?  
TT: Dude, cool it with the caps lock.  
TT: Of course I do, I'm pale as fuck for him. But you're not exactly being generous with the critical info here. Like, what kind of time frame are we even talking here? Is this mayhem planned to occur in a week, a day, fifteen minutes from now? Because you may not be aware, but I don't exactly live next door. Is there a reason I can't just call or message him?  
TC: motherfuck yes  
TC: IT WON'T SERVE  
TC: he's all to being  
TC: SET AND MOTHERFUCKING DETERMINED  
TC: logic and reason ain't got a chance of him up and getting on his listen to them  
TC: I GOT ON MY MOTHERFUCKING TRY ALREADY  
TC: you gotta get physical with him  
TC: AND MOTHERFUCKING PRAY  
TC: it's true serendipity

Okay, wow, coming from his kid brother "get physical” sounds hella wrong. Also, what the fuck is up with that typing quirk? It reads like he's yelling half the time, which is not endearing. And you were under the impression that trolls had _one_ quirk, while this kid appears to be careening back and forth between two.

Maybe it's the sopor damage.

TT: All right, so I have to come over. Again, time frame for this mayhem?  
TC: ToDaY, I GeT ThE NoTiOn.  
TC: nOoN Or tHeReAbOuTs, wHeN NoBoDy'S OuT To gEt tHeIr vIeW On oF ShIt tHeY ShOuLdN't oUgHt tO SeE.  
TC: HeArD ThAt mUcH BeFoRe hE sPoTtEd mE AnD ShUt tHaT TaLk dOwN.

Automatically you glance at the corner of the screen to check the time. It's almost nine AM. Shit, noon’s a little closer than you'd prefer, but this is doable, no need to panic. Tapping back a quick reply, you get up and start pulling yourself together to go out.

TT: ...Right. Nobody's out at noon, nope, just those inconvenient diurnal types like the majority of humans. This sounds like a really well thought out plan.  
TC: MoThErFuCkEr, yOu tHiNk i aIn'T GoT My kNoW On oF ThAt?

Good for him, the kid’s got a tiny smidgen of common sense. Unlike his Ancestor, apparently. Let's see, hat and shades are on, strife deck is ready, put money and various useful items in your sylladex-- looks like you're ready to go. Fuck, just as you were starting to get sleepy.

TT: And you have no idea what this is about, what the unspecified mayhem might pertain to?  
TC: aIn'T I AlReAdY BeEn tO SaY I DoN't kNoW ShIt? :o(  
TC: aLl i GoT AwArEnEsS At iS It'S SoMeThInG To Do wItH ThE HeInOuS NoIsE As wEnT On tHaT NiGhT.  
TC: when he went out, meaning to be gone  
TC: TWO FUCKIN HOURS  
TC: and then didn't come back  
TC: TIL MOTHERFUCKING DAWN

Oh boy. Rather than wait for him to finish, you head out, eyes on your constantly dinging phone with occasional glances up to navigate as you walk to the bus stop.

TC: and made no explanation  
TC: BUT EVASION AFTER EVASION  
TC: and finally what does he say  
TC: BUT WHAT HE GOT MOTHERFUCKING ROBBED  
TC: except it wasn't just money or goods as he was missing  
TC: IT WAS EVERYTHING UP TO HIS MOTHERFUCKING CLOTHES  
TC: and my pan may be rotted  
TC: MIGHT BE HAVING HOLES ALL THROUGH  
TC: but motherfucker, why's a mugger gonna steal a brother's clothes  
TC: AND MOTHERFUCKING WHY  
TC: would my brother what's always been good and kindly to me  
TC: STAY OUT COURTING PALE  
TC: the rest of the night after when he knows  
TC: GOOD AND MOTHERFUCKING WELL  
TC: i’d be all up in my fret at it :o(  
TC: WHY  
TC: would he go all meek  
TC: AND MOTHERFUCKIN EASY  
TC: and hand over all his shit  
TC: EVEN TO THE CLOTHES ON HIS BACK  
TC: to some dumbass sneaking little mugger  
TC: WITHOUT STRIFE  
TC: he wouldn't  
TC: HE WOULD FUCKING NOT  
TC: up and do that thing  
TC: SO I GET DOUBT CREEPING ALL UP THROUGH ME  
TC: it was a mugging at all  
TC: AND I WONDER  
TC: what it was as really took place  
TC: AND I FEAR  
TC: the reason he's not being to tell me :o(

Well, shit. Sopor damage or not, the kid’s sharp. You're pretty clear why Kurloz wants to keep him in the dark about this, and as a good moirail it's down to you to hold the line.

TT: I understand a mind controller was involved.  
TC: HAH  
TC: he said as much at me  
TC: AND FOR WHY HE AIN'T HURT BY STRIFE  
TC: it gets to making some sense  
TC: BUT AS TO THE CLOTHES  
TC: a mind-bender’s got no more reason for to want or take such as he was wearing  
TC: AND AS TO THE DELAY BEFORE HIS RETURN  
TC: no  
TC: IT DON'T MATCH UP, MOTHERFUCKER  
TC: it don't make a shred of fuckin sense

It appears the kid is _inconveniently_ sharp. Problem is, you don't actually want to lie to him-- that's okay for pranks with your own little bro, but not serious shit like this, and not with someone else's. Fortunately he seems to be done trying to get answers out of you, at least for the moment.

TC: ANYWAY  
TC: that ain't the point  
TC: THE POINT IS  
TC: the scheme what my brother's all getting his plot on over is to do with that night  
TC: AND WHATEVER EVENTS  
TC: are at being stuck in his pan like thorns  
TC: WHICH I DON'T MOTHERFUCKING KNOW  
TC: and can't get to guessing at  
TC: BUT I GOT THE NOTION  
TC: you already got your knowledge of it  
TC: SO MAYBE  
TC: you can be at guessing what plans he might have up on him

Yeah, and then again maybe not. You've known the guy all of two days, you talked to him for a few hours, you don't have any idea what he'd consider appropriate revenge. Assuming revenge is even the goal, which Gamzee seems to suspect. Is Kurloz thinking to destroy the porn studio? Kill anyone who was involved in his coercion? Just kill the director who made the decision to use Kurloz as a fill-in? Paint scary clown slogans all over the building, break in and smash up the equipment?

If it was you making the plans, you'd ignore the physical structure and work on destroying the business. Unfortunately you have the feeling Kurloz is more straightforward.

TC: WELL, MOTHERFUCKER  
TC: got any thoughts at it  
TT: Possibly, yeah, not that it really matters, since I'm gonna need to come talk to him either way. I can guess the general object of his ire, but I have no clue what his approach would be.  
TT: All right, I'm at the bus stop. What's your address? And what stop is nearest you?

He gives you the info readily enough, adding plaintively WhEn yOu bEiNg tO GeT HeRe? Looking up the address, you realize it's just as far away as Kurloz said, but at least you'll be going in the same direction as the rest of the traffic. Well, half the time, anyway.

TT: Given that we are nestled snugly into the plush embrace of rush hour, probably forty minutes, maybe a little more. I'm on my way, though. Hang in there.  
TC: yEaH, BrO. GoT AlL My eFfOrT Up aT ThAt.

The bus arrives-- mechanical rather than insectile at this hour-- and you get on, weave between tense or bored people on their way to work, mostly humans with the occasional carapacian, and find a place to stand with a minimum of elbows around your ribs. The air is stuffy with body heat but not overwhelming, not like it'll be in a month or two, and the bus is reasonably clean, so you got lucky. Upping your deadpan expression a notch, you get your phone out and settle in to wait out the trip with a bit of preliminary research.

Close to an hour later, you're walking up a street of rundown apartment buildings, looking for the address Gamzee gave you. Most of the building signage is missing, so you can't tell if you're getting near or if you've already passed it. You're staring through a front door that's hanging open as you pass, showing a dark, empty foyer littered with broken glass, when someone calls out ahead.

“Motherfuck, is that all at being Strider, or some other hornless fucker coincidental-like?”

At first startled glance, you think for a split second the troll sitting on the stoop just ahead of you is Kurloz. Then you notice the silvery grey of his skin, wriggler-pale, the smaller, thinner horns under a shorter mane of wild hair, how skinny his gangly limbs are, and the fact that he's nervously fiddling with his phone. Kurloz is not the type to show anxiety that openly, or much else for that matter.

So this is Gamzee. He's in normal troll black, a thin purple Capricorn sign on the chest of his t-shirt. You'd vaguely expected something more clownish, despite the fact that that would be reckless and dumb. As you approach, you realize his face is oddly flushed, a purple tint across cheeks, nose and ears.

“That'd be me,” you say, stepping up and holding out a fist for the kid to bump.

“Praise motherfuckin’ Messiahs both,” he says fervently, carefully enacting said bump like he's afraid of breaking you. The back of his hand and forearm is slightly purple too. “I been to have my wait on, started to think as what you might not get here in time. Kurloz wants me in coon and shit, but how the motherfuck he'd have expectation as I should sleep with all these brothers and sisters in our hive making such plans--”

“Who's in your hive?” you break in sharply. “You didn't mention you had visitors.”

The little punk has the gall to roll his eyes at you. “Like my bro’d be all up and planning on his lonesome, without calling in the chu--” He catches himself, glances down the empty street. “Calling those as will watch his back. Motherfuck, I'm thirsty.”

Fellow believers, then, probably all purple. “How many people are in there?”

He gives you a puzzled frown, shoving his phone in a pocket. “Not so many as I up and made noise at, I suppose, it's just when they all be to talking at once all excited like but drop to silence the minute they see a motherfucker, all those pairs of ganderbulbs add up quick, if you see my meaning, bro.”

Yeah, you see his meaning all too well. You might just feel it more strongly than he does, because this little endeavor was not proposed as having spectators involved.

“Gamzee, that ain't what I'd call a minor detail. You think he's gonna be happy if I walk in there and pap him silly in front of a bunch of people? I know I'm a clueless human, but isn't pale shit supposed to be _private?_ ” Best to focus on that and not the part where you're not actually great with strangers, or groups, or groups of strangers. You're definitely not thrilled at the thought of a high-stakes pale operation in that setting when you're still figuring out how this pale thing is supposed to work in the first place. Sure you've been mainlining pale porn for the last two nights, but there's only so many applicable tips you can wring out of pornography.

“They're all motherfuckin' clade, ain't like some intruders come to get their gape on at it!” He gets to his feet. Skinny as he is, he unfolds taller than you expected; he might have a couple inches on you, or that might just be the hair.

He shifts his weight side to side, gesturing with his words. “Anyway, better a mite embarrassed before those nearest him than forced to leave them behind or be caught by the motherfucking law!” He throws up his hands for emphasis, then staggers, looking sort of dazed. Abruptly you realize he hasn't been shifting his weight so much as swaying.

“You all right?” you say, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“I'm, yeah, just a dizziness all come on me little while back,” he mutters. Still swaying, he grabs your arm, clinging to it to steady himself. “Sun’s so motherfuckin' _bright_.”

At this hour the sunlight’s only just getting strong, it's really not that bad. Granted, there's no shade on this side of the street, but--

But he's a goddamn troll. _Fuck_. You're such an idiot. “Let's get inside,” you say briefly, and haul his arm over your shoulders to support him, ignoring the protests of “Aw, you don't gotta, be fine, just gotta get a drink of something up in me, got a wicked thirst…”

He gets the door open and you help him into the dim foyer, closing the door behind you. “How long were you sitting out there?” you ask.

“Bout since I messaged you, bro. Reckoned I oughta be there to show you in, like.”

Fucking idiot teenagers. Shouldn't he have more of a clue about his own physiology? “I appreciate the thought,” you say levelly, “but did it occur to you that maybe you should stay out of the sun?”

He turns to look at you and you get the full brunt of it as realization breaks over his face, shock followed by deep dismay. “Aw, shit, brother,” he says miserably. “I went and been a pancracked dumbass again. I was just so motherfuckin' scared… Guess I figured if it started in at hurting me I'd just duck in here. Don't hurt, though, just feels…” he sways and clutches at you again, one hand going distractedly to his middle. “...Not so motherfucking good.”

Dizziness, flushed skin and nausea. In a human that would be sunstroke, and while you don't know enough about trolls to know if it would look the same, the symptoms need attention either way. You'll look it up as soon as you can stop supporting him.

“All right, show me the way to your hive.”

It's on the fifth floor, and somewhat to your surprise there's a working elevator. Granted, it makes more grinding and clanking noises than you're entirely comfortable with, but it's better than hauling six foot of discombobulated teenage troll up five flights of stairs. As you carefully make your combined way down the fifth floor corridor, you can faintly hear singing. It gets more audible as you go along until you can almost make out the words. Gamzee starts singing quietly, possibly unaware that he's right next to your ear.

_“The time is swift approaching now when I must fight and die_  
_My body I will leave behind and to Messiahs fly_  
_My brother faithful fare you well, your fellowship I love_  
_Although I'm leaving, don't you grieve, for soon we'll meet above.”_

He’s breathing hard by the time he stops and opens the door, almost hanging from your shoulders. For a moment the singing washes over you full volume, deep voices braided together in dark harmony, three parts or maybe four, you can't tell because a second later it stops.

“Just me, bro,” Gamzee calls out, and you hear a laugh and some murmuring from out of sight before the singing starts up again. Fuck, the resonance of some of those voices--maybe you can record some samples on your phone, if they agree, Dave would do amazing things with that-- Later. Focus, Strider.

You're helping Gamzee through the door into a cramped little dining room when a short, powerfully built purpleblood steps into view, saying, “Where you been, pupa? Your lusus told you--” She cuts off sharp, seeing you, and says over her shoulder, “Hornless here!” The singing stops again, to your carefully suppressed disappointment, replaced by startled exclamations and some muttering that does not sound friendly.

Eyes narrow, she turns back to you. “Who's this, pupa?”

She might be short for a purple, but that doesn't mean much when she's twice your width in muscle, and you don't miss the fact that her left hand is out a little from her side, ready to access her strifedeck. If she's a friend of Kurloz’s, she’d be an idiot to attack when you're half-carrying his kid, but people do dumber things every day.

“‘S a friend,” Gamzee mumbles. He still sounds breathless and he's not speaking as clearly as he was. He needs help with this shit and he needs it now, but strifing is going to radically hinder your ability to assist. “‘S with Kurloz, pale as fuck.”

Finally she seems to register that something’s up with Gamzee and frowns in concern. “Little brother, what's wrong, sugar grub?”

Before you can answer for him, someone else steps around the corner from the next room.

Long limbs in black and purple, mane of hair wild around tall twisting horns, Kurloz looks hella different in his own clothes, in his own place among his people, intent and powerful. He’s speaking in a rumbling growl you recognize before you even see him.

“What's the motherfucking noise all--”

He stops dead, seeing you. His eyes widen and you take note how orange they are, not killing red but getting there. He's been getting worked up for whatever it is he means to do, you guess, although he looks flustered enough just now to erase any hint of threat.

“Yo,” you say, chill as anything. Bystanders will surely conclude that you are utterly relaxed and on top of this situation. The fact that nothing else makes it out of your mouth is merely a sign of how completely chill you are, and not for instance a symptom of any uncool freakout. You are absolutely not wasting time wondering if this random thing the two of you struck up a few nights back has evaporated without trace for him, or if not, if it's about to.

“...Hey, my brother.” His eyes flick across you and Gamzee and he frowns deep and sudden. Moving to your side, he reaches out and scoops the kid up from where he's half collapsed against you, lifting him in his arms like the bundle of ungainly limbs is stuffed with feathers instead of rocks. He studies Gamzee a moment, glancing back at you once or twice.

“Wiggler, what motherfucking japery is this? Tell it at me, what's the haps with you?” he says gently.

“Sunstroke,” you say, cutting across Gamzee’s confused mumble. The snuggly lususly concern is sweet and all, but you're not sure increased body contact is actually the best idea: you're pretty sure he needs to be against something much cooler than him. You need to look it up, find out for sure, but you have the strong feeling pulling out your phone just yet would be a misstep. Best to stay visibly engaged until all parties’ hackles are settled.

“Kid was sitting in the sun on the front steps when I walked up,” you explain. “Said he'd been there a while, hour or so. You know how to treat that, or should I look it up?”

“Motherfuck,” Kurloz growls, “idiot wiggler, no more sense than a new-hatched grub, going out in the Messiahs-forsaken sunlight without hood nor cloak--”

“Preacher, how we s’posed to treat sunstroke?” the short purple calls over her shoulder to the other room.

The gender-indeterminate troll who appears in the doorway to respond makes you blink. Though their face is only a little weathered, their in-curved horns are darkened with age, notched and scarred. Judging by appearances, this particular purpleblood was already old during the Summoner’s Overthrow a century ago.

“Put him down, for one,” they say dryly. “Lay him out on the multiple seating unit so’s he won't tip over, there we'll tend him.” Kurloz holds Gamzee closer a moment, glaring, then reluctantly heads into the next room to follow this--advice? order? You can tell there are power dynamics here, but you can't read them yet. Before he steps out of sight, though, Kurloz catches your eye and nods at you to follow.

You stop in the doorway. The small living room is packed with giant purplebloods. Despite being warned about the visitors beforehand, somehow you were not mentally prepared for six or seven trolls Kurloz’s size to be in here, taking up all available space. You're not a small guy, but damn if these folks don't make you feel petite.

Kurloz turfs two of them off the couch with a jerk of his head and lays Gamzee down. It's kinda cute to watch them all peer at him, obviously concerned. Looks like he's got a bunch of very large aunt-and-uncle-type folks.

“Shift your ass, hornless,” says the short purple behind you, and you realize you're blocking the door. She barges past with an annoyed huff when you move aside, followed by the older troll she called Preacher, who goes over to the couch as the others give way.

“Get his thorax bare,” Preacher says to Kurloz. “Wiggler, stop your moaning, we'll put your dumb ass right again.” They don't sound as tolerant as you expected from the way everyone else is acting.

Gamzee cringes and goes quiet. Kurloz says in a low voice, “He's not well, kin, be kind.” He sits Gamzee up just enough to get his shirt off, saying, “No fear now, little one, I've got you.” Gamzee mumbles something Kurloz obviously doesn't catch, by the way he frowns and ducks closer.

“He said he was thirsty and nauseous,” you report, leaning against the wall just inside the door. “Might wanna look into that, since throwing up won't exactly help with the dehydration.”

“We need no assistance from any Messiahs-cursed hornless,” Preacher says coolly, without looking at you.

“That's my motherfucking palemate,” Kurloz says, and his voice is calm except for the clicking rattle underneath, which you're pretty sure is not a good noise. “What's your thought for nausea?”

Preacher growls, but makes no actual move to threaten Kurloz or the kid, so you stay put. “Get him an ice-grub to suck on, if you got any in the hive, but it'll go by itself once he's cooled some.” They turn to one of the large spectators, one with jagged horns that hook down behind his ears. “Fetch some wet cloths and cold water and we'll get him started cooling down.”

Kurloz gives directions to where he'll find that stuff and Jagged-horns heads for the door, giving you a puzzled frown in passing.

“Hornless for a moirail,” Preacher mutters. “Messiahs-blessed foolishness.”

“He gave me aid full and unstinting the other night,” Kurloz says steadily, “as I told at you previous. Strange as it does appear at being, he's nearer to serendipity than I thought could be in all reality.”

“And you expect as he's to have any true comprehension of moirallegiance?” Preacher demands. “It's no issue to you if he goes piling it up with half his acquaintance? Hornless do that, brother, promiscuous little heretics--”

Kurloz’s ears are going purple and his eyes definitely have a darker tint of orange than they did. He stands up, smooth and sudden, and looms at the older troll, who is nearly as tall but less broad than Kurloz. (Preacher looks to be built of iron rails, though, and you don't know how age stacks up against youth in a fight when trolls just get stronger for a hella long time.)

“I would take it as a kindness if you would lay the fuck off my motherfucking moirail,” Kurloz says.

Is that your cue to step in? Kurloz isn't the one who's out of order, though, and mediating between them is a different quadrant, one you don't want. It's irritating to have the other dude spouting racist crap and badmouthing you when you're standing right here, but Kurloz just drew the line, so if you speak up now to call Preacher on their bullshit it might look like you don't trust Kurloz to have your back. Fuck, you hate guessing at social bullshit at the best of times, and doing romance in public in the clueless early stage of the relationship has got to be the fucking worst.

Before you can double-guess yourself more than twice, though, one of the other purples steps forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, brothers, peace. Messiahs are in fine humor this night, yeah? What could be a more pleasing jest to them than for Chanteuse to find serendipity unbidden in a motherfucking hornless?”

“Hail Messiahs,” Kurloz says without breaking eye contact with Preacher, who rolls their eyes and mutters along with the relieved chorus of “All praise their mirthful names!”

Jagged-horns comes back in carrying a bowl of water, a handful of cloth and a little bag. Turning away from the stare-down, Preacher takes the bowl and starts wetting cloths and spreading them over Gamzee’s bare chest and arms, even pulling his shoes and socks off to put one on each foot. Kurloz rips the bag open, pulls out a plump white thing, and pops it in Gamzee’s mouth.

Seriously you will never get used to troll food. That thing was wriggling sluggishly when it went into his mouth, but Gamzee has no issue with this and you hear him sigh like it's already helping.

“Will this do him?” Kurloz says when Preacher finishes with the cloths and sets the bowl down.

“Not entire of itself, when the nausea passes he'll need a drink-- not Faygo,” Preacher adds. “Haterade would do well. Feed him some of those cave-farmed grubchips, he's at wanting the minerals now.”

“How long? Someone need to up and stay with him?”

Preacher shakes their head. “Shouldn't be long, he'll be well a long space yet before we go.”

Yeah, you were wondering when someone was going to bring up the schedule, point out there are time constraints. If you're going to keep Gamzee out of it and pretend you just happened to show up now, that mention gives you the excuse to ask Kurloz what's going on. (Okay, the pretense will last exactly until he asks you straight out, but you're kinda worried about the kid now and he doesn't need his guardian mad at him for calling you in.)

Kurloz nods and reaches down to tousle Gamzee’s hair. “Good. Then he can get to coon in a bit, rest up.”

“‘M sorry, bro,” Gamzee mumbles. He's breathing better already and he sounds more coherent, but also miserable. “Didn't mean to be all causing trouble for folk.”

“Hush you now, little brother,” Kurloz says, rubbing a thumb between Gamzee’s eyebrows. “Don't you get worry on over it, all’s well now. You settle on feeling better, we'll straighten out your pan on _staying out of the motherfucking sun_ later.”

Gamzee actually pouts at him. Goddamn, you are witnessing a massive set of sad puppydog eyes here. “Aw, bro…”

“Shoosh. Best be up in your gratitude we got guests, or I'd be schoolfeeding you clear on the topic already.”

Gamzee’s expression is split between dismayed and sulky, and he huffs and looks away. It would appear that in certain fundamental ways, troll teenagers and human teenagers are completely identical.

“Gamzee. You worried me,” Kurloz says.

“Worried us all, little brother,” adds Jagged-horns on his heels.

The kid wilts again. “Sorry, brother,” he says, looking up at Kurloz and then around at everyone else. “Didn't mean to.”

“I know,” Kurloz says. “Just you chill.” He sends one of the others off for the Haterade and chips, then stands up and looks at you a minute. His face is hard to read for reason of too much going on at once, but if you had to guess you'd say that look is ‘happy to see you but fuck, why now?’

“Your pardon, kin,” he says, glancing around. “I'm at needing a brief word with my moirail. Get your praise on in the meantime--sing us something sweet.”

“It'll sound all thin and filled up with motherfucking holes without you join us,” complains a spindly dude with massive upcurling horns.

“Persevere and overcome, brother,” Kurloz says dryly. He moves to the door and nods at you. Taking a silent breath, you follow him out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm extremely sheepish that it's been almost a year since the first chapter. -_-;;  
> Blessings on CurlicueCal.

In the dining room, Kurloz stops and turns to you. Behind you in the living room there's some muttered discussion before another song starts, a little raggedly but with a good steady harmony part. It does sound less robust than before, but those deep voices are still completely fuckin' amazing.

Kurloz gives you a half-smile, brows pulled in. “A pleasure on me to see you, palest brother, and a blessing you came in time to get my wiggler’s ass out of the sun, but sorrow though it is to say--”

“You're busy, huh? Y'all are going somewhere in a bit, I guess.”

He relaxes enough for the smile to look more solid. “That's so. So while your company's dear to me, we'd best wait for another time to get our visit on.”

“Yeah, I get that,” you say casually, in a tone of easy agreement. “But what are you guys doing that's gotta happen so late? I mean, it ain't exactly safe for y’all to be wandering around in the sun, like your kid just proved.”

He frowns slightly. “We got some business to attend to. Don't you get to worrying on it, we know the use of sunrobes and hoods, won't none of us be at sickening of it.”

“Business that has to happen in broad daylight,” you say, a challenge as much as a question.

His lips tighten. “It's surely not for the sweet motherfucking whimsy of it.”

Goddammit, this isn't working, he's not gonna give. Maybe he's guessed you'll disapprove. You're going to have to confront him straight out, and you're enough of a dick that you'd enjoy that with anyone else, but you really don't want things to get unfriendly between the two of you. You don't want him angry at you, or to think you're trying to control him or some shit. That happens in human romance often enough, moirallegiance can't be totally free of the risk just because it lacks sex.

Okay, no accusation in your tone, no assumptions about his intent beyond the obvious, be as blunt as possible in hopes of startling him into honesty, god Strider, just try not to be a fucking moron. “You want revenge,” you state. “Tell me what you're trying to do.”

His eyes go wide and he just stares a minute. “Brother, how the motherfuck--” He stops, thinking hard as his eyes narrow again. “Come to think on it, you did make appearance terrible sudden at our hive portal, and I never been to tell you any address. Messiahs laughing, Gamzee up and summoned you, didn't he.” Glowering tiredly, he buries a hand in his hair and rubs distractedly at his scalp. “Sneak-ass wiggler had his fret on half the night and would not be comforted. So he called you out to come get inspection on of all this righteous kickass mess and say as we could go or nay.”

...Welp. “I'm not under any illusion that you need my permission, dude, or that I can actually stop you if I don't like what you're doing.” The look he's giving you goes a little funny at that, you're not sure why. “But he was concerned you might do something that'd put you all at risk, and I thought I'd just check in and see if I can help with the strategizing. Planning is kinda a skill of mine.”

By the frown, he's not exactly thrilled, but you were expecting that. “No motherfucking _risk_ ,” he growls, “I'd not be at risking him, crack-panned wiggler ought to have the full knowing of that.”

“I think he was most worried you two would have to leave town, move away. He said it happened before.”

Kurloz sighs and his shoulders sag. “Make one motherfucking mistake and the wiggler never forgets it.” He watches you for a long minute, narrow eyes orange-gold, and then he twists his mouth to one side and makes a grumbling noise and you relax, because thank fuck, that's a giving-in sound. 

“We plan at going down to that heinous place this day and burning it entire,” he says quietly. “We will rend all asunder, render stones into dust, wreak our righteous fury on all that ground until naught is left but falling ash.” His eyes are shading darker as he speaks, and although his voice is still low and controlled, it's picked up an undertone you recognize from that night, a grate and whine that makes the back of your neck prickle. “Then will we find out that unholy mind-bender, rip him from his coon and make him motherfucking pay in blood and anguish for his mirthless sins, and then--”

“‘Kay,” you break in. “Think I've got the picture. Revenge in blood and fire, check.” Your stomach is twisting itself into a Gordian knot. He was this angry before, at the beginning of that night, but it didn't have much of an effect on you because he and his problems weren't your business. You were sympathetic, like any reasonable passerby to someone else's catastrophe, that was all. Now his anger has a direct impact on you, fraying your chill.

“Did you come up with this plan before or after sliding into a rage?” you ask him.

He gives you a thunderous look. “Motherfucker, to be _before_ I would have to up and slip back through time to _before_ the wretched heretics made so unholy free with me.”

Well, not exactly; he sure wasn't in a rage when he left your place in the early hours of that morning. Clearly, he sank into it pretty soon after, though, and the upshot is that he hasn't exactly been thinking clearly for a while. (He's been hurting for _two days_ and he didn't call you, you didn't know.)

“So how are you planning to not get caught?” you say, as not-pointedly as you can manage.

“My own powers may be locked away from use, but my kin’s are not,” he growls. “They can fear-monger any being nearby to up and flee long before anything’s done or seen.”

That… sounds like a less than foolproof plan. You rub your forehead with a couple of knuckles and breathe in.

“Any thoughts about the security cameras in the area?” you ask, and he just blinks at you for a minute, frowning.

“We'll have hoods on at us, every one--”

“Which will do just about zilch to hide the shapes, sizes, etc of your horns, unless the hoods cover those, in which case for some of you they better be massive if they're going to still hide your faces,” you point out. “How about the building, did you check out who owns it?”

His eyes are a deep orange and he's starting to make a subvocal clicking rumble, which you're pretty sure means you're pissing him off. His big hands flex once, claws catching your eye, and you're reminded once again how much bigger he is than you, how inhuman the scale of him is. He could rip you apart without breaking a sweat if he loses the last of his chill. 

“No, I did not motherfucking check of that,” he says, glowering, “how should I get on my care at it?”

“Because as it turns out, the porn studio only rents the place,” you tell him evenly. Maybe if you were smarter you'd back off, try to placate instead of standing your ground, or at least get some distance to defend yourself, but that's not you. And… you're pretty sure it's not any good moirail, either. You have to be able to stand up to his rage to rein him in. For a second the image flashes behind your eyes of him laid out on your bed with your hands on his face, blissful and dazed and purring. You rub your gloved palms against your jeans instead of reaching for him.

You could step back. You step up instead, get closer into his space, within arm's reach. It’s more confrontational than soothing, probably, but, hey, that’s also you.

He doesn't stop the low rumble of a growl, and his eyes don't lighten in color at all, but he doesn't attack you, either. You're counting it a win.

“As far as I could tell,” you go on, like you are not doing some kind of moirallegiance equivalent of juggling knives right now, “the owner is some carapacian group. Which means if you burn the place down, yeah you'll _inconvenience_ the porn folks, but the ones who take the real loss will be some random folks you've never met.”

He's still growling quietly, hands flexing at his sides, eyes dark and furious--and lost, with an edge of panic. “And will you yet reave from me my rightful vengeance? Hornless as you are, can you even motherfucking _comprehend_ , or will you speak empty words of forgiveness for the ills done me, say as I must _let go_ now it's past--”

“Not even fucking close,” you interrupt before he can work himself up further. “I get it, bro, I absolutely comprehend.” Revenge is a way of taking back control from the people who took it from him, you know, you're hella clear on that. “I'm not saying you can't get your own back,” you say, and it comes out gentler than you meant. “I'm just saying it has to be smarter than this.”

He curls his lip at you and snarls, and yeah, you're not standing for that.

“Hey!” you say sharply. “Cut that out! Shoosh!”

He blinks, looking torn between outrage and confusion, and there's a snort from the doorway. Your head jerks around in a movement that's way less chill than you'd like.

The skinny guy with the big curly horns is leaning against the doorframe, eyeing you. “Nice technique,” he says. “You gonna pap him down, spoil our rebellious murderwhimsy revels?”

“Given that the alternative seems to be the bunch of you getting your asses picked up by the legislaceraters, yeah,” you say, heart speeding up. If he doesn't like that pronouncement, if the rest of them come in here, this could get messy.

It's a damn arrogant statement to make, too, though you're trying not to think about that. Sure you've survived standing up to Kurloz so far, but he doesn't have to attack you to carry out his plans, and you’re not exactly some kind of pale Lothario to send someone swooning out of their murderous intentions. You could maybe fight him to a stop, but that… you suspect that would fuck up the relationship _real_ good.

Also you probably can’t fight all of them.

The singing is still going in the other room, so no angry mob is shaping up just yet. Curly-horns scowls at you.

“It'd get at being a fine motherfucking exit to the carnival,” he challenges you. “No fear at it nor reluctance for any of those gathered here.”

“Seriously?” you say, staring from him to Kurloz, who's still growling softly, eyes narrow and resentful on you, and back again. “We're talking about dying now? All of you are willing to go that far for a half-baked, barely thought out revenge scheme? How are any of you people even alive with survival instincts that dumbshit?”

Curly-horns’ lip curls at you, showing a nice array of fangs. “Those here got that powerful will all on us, sure enough. Plenty of others stayed away, but _we_ came to our brother's call, and we'll stand defiant at his side.”

Uh...huh. So this is a small group of volunteers, all but one looking as young or younger than Kurloz, young enough to be hotheaded and daring. Already enraged at how they're treated, with Kurloz a walking reminder of how bad it gets--yeah, no wonder they're ready to lash out at some obvious bad guys.

A nasty thought strikes you. “Is Preacher going with you?” you ask casually.

Curly-horns frowns at you like the suggestion is idiotic, which pretty much confirms your suspicions. “No,” he says, “they'll lead us in prayer before that we be off.”

“Mm,” you say. So Preacher's keeping their own ass off the line while doing not one thing to restrain the younger crew. What a fine, upstanding mentor. “Welp. I don't give a damn what the rest of you do, but I can ruin that studio without even stepping out of my front door, so at least right now, Kurloz isn't going anywhere.”

Saying that feels too familiar to be okay, reminiscent of back when you thought nothing of making someone else's decisions for him like it was your right, but the other troll just growls at you and goes back to the living room like you've won, and--they all seem to think it _is_ your right in this particular situation. Maybe you still haven't quite got this moirail thing down.

Maybe you should check to see how your actual moirail feels about all this.

You turn back to Kurloz, orange eyes and throbbing, floor-vibrating growl and huge clenching hands and all, and you force yourself to breathe like you're calm and relaxed. He still hasn't attacked you, despite the glare fixed on you, but he looks poised, somehow, anticipatory, all seething undirected energy like he’s a hair's breadth from lashing out in any direction. The wrong push and you think he’d aim it all at you, but he’s just standing there, eyes sharp and dark and watchful on you. You get the impression he’s _waiting_ for something, and you’re not sure what.

Tugging off your fingerless gloves, you tuck them in a pocket and step even closer, head tilted back to track the flare of his pupils a foot up from yours, the hitch in his breath, the slight rise in the low burr of his growl. You don’t know what a troll would make of this, but pretty much every human instinct you can have is going, danger, danger, danger, do not touch the fuckin’ rattlesnake you dumbass, get out of striking range.

You’re going to stand right here and touch the rattlesnake. You know this about yourself as a person. 

Luckily, you are also pretty fuckin’ talented, so if said rattlesnake goes for you, you will _probably_ survive your dumbass decisions. 

Okay. You got this.

Taking a deep breath, you remember the peaceful, hazy look he got when you touched his cheek at the door before he left your apartment. “Shoosh,” you say as low and calm as you can, and raise a hand to his face, stroking along his cheekbone the way you've seen in the vids.

He doesn't bite your hand off, but it doesn't have the immediate effect you were hoping for, either; his growl spikes and thunders at you instead of quieting, and your heartbeat spikes faster right along with it. You don't let it show, you keep your voice steady and quiet and keep shooshing, keep stroking his cheek and forehead and the spot between his eyebrows.

Even as his growl rolls on, rattling and dangerous, his eyelids flutter and droop, snap wide again as he fights against being calmed. His hands flex and curl into claws, then go slack at his sides, then jerk and flex again. He's not going to make it easy for you. But then, if he _could_ , he wouldn't need your help like this in the first place.

And… he’s not ducking away from you, not avoiding or attacking. He's letting you lay hands on him, letting you right up into his space, close enough to hurt and be hurt. You can feel every shiver and twitch of reaction, feel the moments when he presses ever so slightly into your hands, the moments when he trembles under your touch.

The particular flavor of power is heady. You're used to being able to draw reactions out of people when you want, but usually those are negative--anger is kind of your specialty, with intimidation as a close second. Lust is the best-case scenario, and no complaints on that score. But to have your own hands, so skilled at violence and clumsy with the people you care for, soothe someone into peace and calm… that's really different.

...Nice. Weirdly satisfying.

Honestly, you get so caught up in it, you have no idea how long it takes before he starts breathing more slowly, the growl stuttering into silence before the softer sound of a purr picks up in its place. His hands relax, his arms hanging loose, his lips lose their tension and close over his fangs again.

Fingers tracing over his face, stroking lighter as he calms, you almost feel like you've hypnotized yourself right along with him. You're breathing in sync, the two of you, and you're as calm and still and focused now as you've been trying to get him. You don't even care about the way your arm aches from holding it over your head for this long. When his eyes open from a long, slow blink and you see his sclera have lightened from orange to stable gold, the rush of triumph sweeping through you is weirdly warm and affectionate, intense as a shot of something _good_. You’re… happy, in a way that's simple and bright and unfamiliar.

His mouth twists as the purr stutters out, and for a moment he looks tired and uncertain, gazing at you, weirdly vulnerable for as huge and deadly a guy as he is. The comedown from being that pissed off can be rough, in your experience, but you somehow thought it'd be different for trolls, or that the whole moirail thing would make the difference.

“Hey,” you say quietly, hand still on his face. “I got you.”

Kurloz sighs and raises his hands, puts them on your shoulders. You realize you're actually smiling at him, a little crooked, one-sided thing, but there. He tugs you closer, stoops a little and--what the-- You tense all over as he _picks you up_ and holds you against him like a little kid or a teddy bear or something, arms tight around your back. He starts purring again in a low rumble, you can feel the vibration against your chest.

“Look at you,” he murmurs into your hair, nudging your hat and shades off-kilter. “Upright miraculous little brother, fronds all dealing out diamonds pale as weathered bone.”

“Yeah,” you say, a little tight with missing air. “You bet.” You hesitate. On the one hand, this is going great and you don't want to mess up the vibe you've got going here. On the other, your happy chill is kind of being swamped by discomfort at the intense body contact, and not being able to use your arms or breathe properly is not helping.

“Can't breathe, dude,” you point out, and the grip on you shifts and eases. Great. Now you can breathe, and you're _still_ being clutched like a toddler’s favorite stuffed animal. That did not go as planned.

“Tell at me,” he says, low and quiet over his purr, “what you would have of me, little precious one. Here am I gentled down to ease and softness, and you yet taut and ready for battle. Unkind to leave you so, and my palms itch for the soothing of you.”

Okay, wow, that's. That's definitely a thing, he just said. You are 99% certain that is some _filthy_ pale dirty talk, which would explain why your ears are feeling kind of warm despite the fact that you're not a troll and it really shouldn't affect you that way. Maybe it's the low voice he said it in.

You're about to disappoint him and probably ruin everything forever by suggesting he should really put you down, when someone says from the doorway, “Mirthful Messiahs, brother, get your ass in a motherfucking pile!”

Kurloz twitches and the purr cuts off short. You worked hard to get that purr, dammit. Turning your head, since that's the most you can move, you tighten your mouth at the interloper to make clear that you're glaring behind your shades right now. The thick-set, spike-horned troll doesn't seem to notice your disapproval.

“And full and well I had intended to do, my sister,” Kurloz says, “but that I was interrupted by you getting on your motherfucking voyeur.”

“And you'll yet be interrupted more,” says another voice as the singing falters and stops, and the big guy with jagged downturned horns shoulders forward, frowning. “What's the haps, bro? Here I'd been all to thinking as we were on our way to wreak havoc on those who up and wronged you, and here you're merrily off to pile it up with this hornless?”

“Hornless, yeah,” Spike-horns breaks in, elbowing him. “But ain't just any motherfucking passerby could pacify our Chanteuse from killing rage.”

Jagged-horns huffs and rubs his midriff, glaring, but doesn't argue with her, looking to Kurloz instead for a response.

Kurloz holds you tighter a minute, then gives a long sigh and lets you down. You cross your arms and turn to face the other two, refusing to admit to any kind of awkwardness or embarrassment over having been cuddled like a fuzzy toy in front of them.

This is going to be--interesting. Obviously you were aware the rest of the gathering might not be thrilled about the change of plans, but somehow you'd vaguely imagined you’d only have to convince Kurloz and then he would deal with the others. Judging by the look on his face, that's not at all a sure thing, though. Dammit, you're gonna have to do more talking to strangers, aren't you. 

“My palest brother has… reservations nipping at his pan,” Kurloz says slowly, “over our plans of wicked vengeance this day.”

Reservations, yeah okay, that is a highly diplomatic way to say it. Your own phrasing would be more like ‘the firm conviction that this is suicidal, bloodthirsty idiocy’.

“What motherfucking reservations?” Jagged-horns growls.

“Do you want that in alphabetical order or are you gonna want a PowerPoint presentation?” you answer, and wave it away. “It’s a faulty plan, too many potential failure points, and I'm not putting up with the results of that. If we take a step back and use our fuckin’ heads here, we can wreck whoever we want without the stupidity.”

Jagged-horns bristles, looking sullenly unenthused, and Spike-horns narrows her eyes at you.

You stare them down and for a moment you are struck by the sensation that you are staring at two younger, dumber versions of yourself. Or possibly Dave? It feels a little like the way you feel when Dave gets a particularly reckless plan in his head. Oh god, are you the adult in this situation? You think you might have to be the adult in this situation. You are so not qualified for that.

Kurloz makes a thoughtful rumbling sound beside you. “We'll yet have our wrathful vengeance,” he says, equal parts question and statement.

You take a deep breath, let it out. Get your game face on. Feel the weight settle onto your shoulders. Not quite as crippling as you might have expected. Fuck it, you’re a Strider, you’re good at everything you do.

“We will, yeah,” you say. “Let’s talk.”


End file.
